


Love's Labour's Lost

by jenna_thorn



Category: Princess Bride (1987), Shakespeare in Love (1998)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-14
Updated: 2005-04-14
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7650970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>crossover by request - Princess Bride and Shakespeare in Love</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love's Labour's Lost

The Dread Pirate Roberts leaves no survivors.

Except that he does. 

Oh, he kills -- quickly, cleanly, often. His reputation is well earned. And I've yet to see him stay his hand for any captive save myself, but wreck or storm victims, no. It's as though he'll not take what the sea has spared. Some pirate code. Or perhaps a seaman's code, rather, for pirates are seaman, as well. A farmboy has no place here. Yet here I am. 

"Over the edge lads, return to Neptune what is his."

The dead have no place on board a ship, no more place than a farm boy, far from horse and home and lady fair. I've learned the use of each man, from cook to mate, learned the rigging, the knots, how to patch a sail. I will be glad to leave. 

"That leaves us with two, Boy. A mermaid and a midshipman. We know more about him than her, use your eyes. Look at his hands, a carpenter's mate, pr'haps even a carpenter. See that scar? With the pucker at the end? And he'll be glad of employ. Her … I don't know. She's high born, mebbe royal, and they've no place here with us. So we'll drop her at port should she rise, and be done with her."

I don't ask about ransom. The Dread Pirate Roberts takes no prisoners, after all. 

"Good night, Wesley. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning."

Roberts is right, as he is so often. The dawn brings the clear skies that always follow a storm and both our guests awake. The carpenter's mate will either die of the hacking cough or he'll recover to work, but he'll not leave. The lady sits alone, legs curled under her like a child. She gives her name as Ethyl, with a secret smile. The crewmen, ever wary of superstition, avoid her. 

I bring her water, hard tack, and the captain's compliments for breakfast. I bring her watered rum, salt meat, and the captain's offer at noon. She returns the meat with her acceptance of his terms. All day she stays on deck, moving with the sun, keeping to the shade, facing ever to the east. The sunset behind her is beautiful, as though to compensate for the terror of the night before. The screaming wind of the typhoon has calmed to a breeze, enough to snap the ropes, not quite enough to fill the sails. We make adequate time to the edge of the New World. 

The captain carves at his own table. I pour, I serve, but I never touch a knife. I don't know whether this is Robert's caution or habit. She yields to him the jewelry she was wearing as payment for our hospitality. She claims her husband's name will buy her passage to his home, widow though she is. When the captain excuses himself, she remains and asks why I am here. I answer Love and ask the same. She answers Love. And she weeps. 

When I volunteer to ferry her to the shore, perhaps Roberts thinks that I shall not return. We speak of Life, of Love, of Duty and Survival as I row. We finish the trip in silence. I hesitate at the shoals, dock the oars, but she does not, tipping the boat and soaking her dress as she throws herself toward shore. 

"There you are, boy. Tie up quickly. This is no land for a pirate, and I've a mind to be away from here."

She's wrong; I must believe she is wrong. Love does not answer to duty. Love conquers all. For if I did not know, with all my heart, that my Buttercup waited for me, I would not be able to stand at the helm through dawn watches, would not spend the hours of practice with the rapier and flintlock and cannon, would not build callus and speed, riposte and parry, let the rope cut my hands and the stink of burning pitch sear my nose. No, she is erudite and quite brave, but she is wrong. 

My love waits for me.


End file.
